Issue 02
Job Protiti Rasnaha Kamal Some flimsy talk decorates my lips. My mouth, enchanted by the whispers of my inner dialogue, Leap into a presentation of an image That lacks a corporate attire. Supple and sweet is the dance of my tongue. Salsa or Waltz, we haven’t tapped into the intricacies of it. It showcases my inner life through an exponential growth curve. Where does it plateau? Wherever the asymptote finds the axis, My tongue pulls back tracing the vacuum Between it and my words. The vacuum feels full with some mad speech, heard until my tongue falls out. There’s a panel of interviewers looking at me. There’s that dancer with the broken heel. There’s that math prodigy with his self-defeating strategies. There’s that mime who I can relate to. And then there’s a patchwork specialist, who pities me. The unanimous vote: I have delivered an outstanding first impression. 92
